


Christmas Bash Romance

by Elphen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Assumed Identity, Disguised Sherlock Holmes, Fluff, Flustered Sherlock, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock in Denial, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sort Of, Undercover Sherlock, Unexpected attraction, accidentally falling in love, because Sherlock's an idiot, businessman john, charming john, persistent john, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 08:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: AU. Mostly in an effort to get out of Christmas with his family, Sherlock takes a private case that requires him to go undercover at a company party on Christmas Eve, complete with disguise and assumed personality. He's bored out of his skull until he's sat next to one former army doctor at the table. They hit it off, remarkably so, John being charming and interesting, but it's nothing that special, nothing that'll last. At least, so Sherlock tries to convince himself, regardless of how his chest feels.John doesn't agree. At all.





	Christmas Bash Romance

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! I managed to get it done in time to post this, too, so you get two Christmas stories this year. That said, I'm oddly nervous about posting this.  
> Sucky title as per the norm by now :D It's traditional...or something.

There were many places and even more situations he hated having to be in. Usually, he could find a way to wriggle out of being in either or both, oftentimes with enough flair to ensure that he’d never get close to being in it again, but this time, sadly, frustratingly, he was stuck.

What made it even worse was that he had no one to pin this on, other than himself. He’d been the one to take on this case, of his own free will, not cajoled and threatened by Mycroft nor offered it by Lestrade.

Granted, it had seemed like quite the brilliant idea at the time, taking a case that required him to go undercover at a Christmas party on Christmas Eve to gain access to information and objects vital to the solving of it. Though, in hindsight, he might’ve also have been motivated by avoiding going home for Christmas and enduring Mycroft for several _days_ in a row.

Now, though…now he’d almost welcome having to hear his brother’s annoying voice drone on and on. At least that was used to say something halfway intelligent, not inane, more-or-less inebriated dreck that threatened to turn his brain into the same consistency.

The very sour cherry on top was that he couldn’t tell them how utterly imbecilic they sounded and were. In order to gain access, he’d fashioned himself a persona as one of the…well, he hadn’t been too specific, as that made it easier for people to assume and fill in the blanks themselves, whatever those blanks might be. The beauty of it was that if he was vague enough in just the right way, people from every department would believe that he belonged to one of the other ones and not question why they hadn’t seen him before.

It also helped that it was quite the big company, so people were more likely to not know everybody in their own department, let alone the ones from other ones.

The problem in that lay that for him to pull it off, being his usual self or something even close to it would be detrimental, to put it mildly. The persona he’d crafted was one much meeker, more willing to please and not entirely certain of himself and while it was useful in terms of people letting their guard down and fading in, not to mention not reminding anyone who might’ve heard of Sherlock Holmes, it also meant that deducing people or telling them a few home truths would be out of character and out of the question.

It had gone alright through the pre-dinner milling around. He _had_ attempted to sneak away and get his job over with then and there, but people were just about _everywhere_ in the damn room, and so he would have to wait until people were seated and sufficiently sloshed that nobody would notice whether he’d run off, or rather, _where_ he’d run off to.

Not that he wasn’t capable of giving people the slip, of course he was, but he needed a bit of peace and quiet to process the acquired data and that would go a lot smoother if nobody had an inkling that their archives, and other things, had been broken into.

The milling was easy, though, mostly because you were expected not to stay with one group for very long and it was easy to just nod and smile and feign interest while filtering through the titbits that had the least bit relevance to what he was after, which was hardly difficult, as there was so little of it.

He’d been reduced to thinking out reaction chains on chemicals in order to keep his mind from composting by the time they’d gone through the starter.

How on earth did people stand these things, let alone enjoy them? The whole thing was so shallow there wasn’t even anything fun to dig into.

Somebody had had a truly idiotic idea and so, after the starter, half the table was to switch table, and then, for pudding, the other half would switch to the other side, ostensibly so that everyone had a chance to talk to as many people as possible.

Sherlock wasn’t the one who had to switch this time, more’s the pity, but he was grateful that the dinner companion to either side left, as he was spared jabbing a piece of cutlery into either of them.

On one side came a mousy little woman, obviously her first job in this line of career and her first time at an extravagant event like this, and so she was rather overwhelmed. That and she was in a furious argument with her girlfriend on her phone about how this was a career choice that’d secure them for life so of course she had to be there, it was expected of her if she wanted to keep the job beyond the first month, and she’d be home for Christmas Day, she really would.

She hadn’t said anything about how she thought that if the higher-ups knew she had a girlfriend, she might not get to last long, he deduced, from the way she was chewing her…oh, dear lord, she could at least have been a little bit subtler, then, with her choice of nail varnish. If she didn’t want people to know, she shouldn’t adv – ah, wait, no, they were painted by the girlfriend. She clearly wasn’t a regular user and there was no tell-tale shakiness of the varnish on the dominant hand. The way she was biting the nail wasn’t just because of nerves but an attempt to obscure the stripes.

Should he tell her? Oh, it was tempting to –

He was distracted by the dinner companion on the left side sitting down and accidentally bumping his arm in the process. Eyes narrowed behind the glasses he’d donned for the disguise for only a moment before he remembered himself and his role and turned it into a somewhat startled look that had more than a sprinkling of apology, even though it clearly wasn’t his fault.

As he looked at the man who’d sat down beside him, however, he had to fight to keep the expression.

The man ought to have been unassuming, ordinary, dull, and in a way, that was true.

He was relatively short, at least compared with Sherlock, but even sitting down, it was evident that the proportions were fine. More than fine, really…that suit really did a lot of favours, didn’t it? In the sense that it enhanced what was evidently already there, of course. You could always tell whether that was the case.

But even in the light that was supposed to lend a more ‘intimate’ vibe to the overly large room, it was difficult _not_ to see how much the grey suit with tones of blue complimented him, the grey reflecting in his hair, though not in his beard, while the blue brought out the equivalent shades in his eyes. The white shirt lent a crispness to the whole outfit and the waistcoat was cut just…so.

Sherlock realised too late that he was staring. His only rescue was that his expression had already been schooled into something similar. Though really, would the other man have even noticed? Highly unlikely.

The man did notice the expression but evidently took it as intended, smiling in an apologetic yet reassuring manner. It was a warm smile, a genuine one that reached his eyes as well as his lips and…not exactly softened his face but certainly warmed it, making it open and inviting.

Sherlock didn’t notice his heart making the tiniest leaping skip in his heart.

“I’m sorry about that,” the man said, turning to more fully face the brunet. “Should’ve paid better attention.”

He held out his hand. “John Watson.”

Sherlock blinked, hesitated for just the calculated believably shy amount and took the hand to shake. “Sam. Sam Copper.”’

He’d dyed his hair a reddish sort of colour that wasn’t exactly ginger, but it was close enough that people made the ‘humorous’ connection and thus, that would be what they remembered about him, that and the glasses, both of which were easily disposed of.

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” John said, his smile somehow widening.

He let go of Sherlock’s hand and for a moment of idiocy, the brunet felt bereft.

John turned to shake hands with the person on his other side and Sherlock surmised that that would be that. There was no reason for them to interact further, after all. If the man wanted to chat to someone, there were both the person on the other side and the people across the table, all of whom seemed.

So why hadn’t he turned his gaze away? Why was he studying the back of the man’s neck, the fall of the suit jacket over his back, noting details that could only be called irrelevant, given that he didn’t need anything from him?

John started to turn back, and Sherlock hurriedly focused his gaze downwards, so that he wasn’t caught staring again.

Why? What did it matter if he was?

“Hey? Sam? You okay?”

Contrary to his assumption, John was talking to him again, initiating contact, both verbal and physical, as he’d placed a hand on a bony shoulder. Sherlock’s head almost snapped up.

“What? Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, sorry, I’m…sorry. Just a bit – “ he waved a hand to indicate, flashing a wobbly smile.

“Overwhelmed?” John finished, the smile returning to do strange things to Sherlock’s insides. “Yeah, I can get that. This your first time? Thought as much. It’s always over the top, to say the least, and to newcomers, it tends to be rather daunting.”

“You’re a regular, then?” Of course, he bloody well was, but Sam wouldn’t know and even if he did, he’d want to keep the conversation and that was an easy, non-awkward opening, a heaven-send.

John’s smile turned strained for a moment. “Sort of. Been to more of these than I care to remember, much less admit. You’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all, more or less.”

“Then why do you come? If you dislike them so much, I mean.”

The shorter man frowned for a moment. Then he snorted a small laugh.

“Good question. Suppose I just don’t want to disappoint people, “he paused, thinking, “or I have a masochistic streak. Either or, really.”

“Is there a difference?”

This time, the snort of laughter wasn’t small. “An excellent question, that.”

The hand on Sherlock’s shoulder – the one John had at no point removed and Sherlock hadn’t made to dislodge either, he suddenly realised – squeezed for just a moment.

He allowed it.

They were interrupted by the waiters arriving with the food, going between them to place the plates down. Not that Sherlock cared overly much, even though it was arranged to look extravagant and inviting, since he wouldn’t be eating any of it. He was, after all, on a case.

John didn’t seem overly keen on it, either. That said, he did still dig in, eating quickly and efficiently, not as though he was starved or wanted it over with, but as if it was a necessary though not wholly unpleasant chore.

_As though he’s used to scarfing down as much as possible in the time he’s been allotted, knowing that that time might be snatched away at any moment. Now who would be so used to that type of eating that it’s become ingrained into him unless he consciously corrects for it? Certainly no one who’d be unusually used to cooperate events such as this._

John suddenly got quite a bit more interesting, and he hadn’t exactly been dull to begin with.

That said, it seemed the man was aware that Sherlock was looking at him because he stopped suddenly.

“Sorry about that,” he said, smiling apologetically, though not, the detective noted, self-consciously. Interesting. “Old habits and all that.”

“Old habits of what? Or, oh, sorry, that was the wrong question, wasn’t it?” There was something to be said about this particular type of disguise; it gave you leeway to ask question that normally wouldn’t fly. Not that he usually cared about what was acceptable but like this, people forgave you for it.

Sure enough, he got an answer, with no hesitation or suspicion.

“Not at all. You weren’t to know. I was in the RAMC, you tend to pick up odd habits like trophies.”

An army medic? Of course! How the hell had he not spotted that?

“RAMC? You’re a doctor?” And ask the painfully obvious ones, too.

“Surgeon, and I was.” He held up his left hand, clearly his dominant one, and made it wobble. He grimaced slightly. “Not really fit anymore. So, they packed me off into civilian life to fend for myself, the bastards.”

“Sorry.”

John turned his head and fixed him with an odd look. “What on earth are you apologising for? You didn’t get me discharged, did you?”

“But I did ask.”

Why was it suddenly so important that the other man didn’t think ill of him? He was only another partygoer, for heaven’s sake, he’d be gone after the course had finished.

A half-smile found its way onto John’s lips at that and though Sherlock wasn’t aware, he felt relieved and his heart did another little skip. “You did but it’s fine. Wasn’t obligated to answer, after all.”

The smile widened slightly and turned charming. Well, intentionally so. “That’s me sorted. What about you, Sam? What sins have forced you to spend the evening here rather than at home with an undoubtedly utterly lovely significant other?”

Significant other. No gender marker one way or the other. Interesting.

Wait. No, it wasn’t. It was irrelevant, that’s what it was. John was a momentary distraction, one he ought to leave be as soon as possible. This wasn’t him, this wasn’t something he was interested in, he had one purpose for attending this utter tedium of a party and that was not to get chatty with former army surgeons, no matter how interesting or charming. No, not charming!

“I…uhm, well, I just started a few months ago…and I don’t know people, so I thought…but I didn’t realise it’d be so huge.” He went the extra mile and bit his lip, self-conscious as he looked down. “I…I don’t have a significant other.”

He could’ve just made one up, of course. But that could easily spin out beyond what he’d want to deal with, for no reason, and he didn’t want that.

There was the small part of him, too, that didn’t want John to think he was attached, either. He ignored it.

He felt a hand cover his on the table, the same one that had been on his shoulder earlier, and though it was calloused, it was warm and oddly comforting.

“Their loss is my gain, then,” John said, and the way he said it and the way he smiled turned an otherwise extremely corny line believable and sincere. “For tonight, at least. If you don’t mind, of course.”

“No! No, I mean, yes, I mean, no, I don’t mind. I...oh, buggering fuck.” The cursing came out more vehement than intended but then, the flustered air hadn’t been entirely acted.

At that, John laughed, a proper laugh that made Sherlock smile as well. The skip of his heart wasn’t quite so little this time.

 

* * *

 

Dessert was served some time later, and Sherlock didn’t notice. Nor did he pick up that neither he nor John changed seats or were requested to do so, or that he’d had more than enough opportunity to slip away unnoticed to do what he’d actually come here for in the first place.

In fact, he didn’t notice much of anything. Except John.

John, who was right now listening with genuine interest, his chin resting against the heel of his palm, his lips pressing against his folded fingers, his head tilted slightly, to a recounting of one of Sherlock’s more interesting, and therefore more disastrous, experiments.

He left out that it had been done as part of a case for the Yard, one of his first murder cases. That really wouldn’t do for Sam Copper to have had any track with, and the story didn’t lose anything by its omission.

He knew that he wasn’t a great storyteller. Oh, he could concoct a story but that was for the purpose of his work, for handy little lies and plausible covers, not for relaying a tale that had already occurred. He’d never needed to develop the knack, as it were.

Being Sam Copper, shy and uncertain and socially clumsy, didn’t exactly help matters.

And yet…John was listening, eyes focused on Sherlock as he explained. He enquired about things, asked for expansion or clarification on certain things and even added small anecdotes of his own, which had surprised the brunet quite a bit.

One story segued into another, then another. Then John told a story about having to apply a surgery procedure he hadn’t encountered since his uni days, and then even only in class and in theory, out in the middle of the desert, which then segued into some more army and university stories, all of which were surprisingly interesting.

What didn’t come up at all was anything related to their current lives, whether it be work-related or private. That was odd; usually people couldn’t help but bring up all kinds of tedium relating to their homelife but here there was as good as nothing, almost as if the other man was deliberately avoiding it.

But why would he? Fear of coming across boring? No, that couldn’t be it. Sherlock, or rather Sam, was hardly presenting as someone with the most fascinating life, let alone homelife. Skeletons in the closet? Far more likely but again, why would it matter? This was nothing more than two people chatting for one night, then their paths would never cross again.

Sherlock felt an unexpected pang at that thought. Then he remembered that he had John’s full name; he could look him up later, find out more about him.

Realising what he’d just thought, he mentally scolded himself. What was _wrong_ with him? He had no intentions of making friends here, he didn’t want to find out more about John – and even if he did, what difference did it make? John wasn’t talking to Sherlock Holmes, he was talking to Sam Copper, recently employed chemist who was shy, uncertain and endearing.

Sherlock himself was none of those things, almost the exact opposite, in fact, and so there’d be no reason for John to find him interesting or endearing.

But what did it matter if he didn’t? He was just another person, admittedly more interesting than most and for longer than most, which was only enhanced by the things Sherlock could deduce about him as they talked. But he would undoubtedly turn out to be as equally dull as the rest of them. It wouldn’t be worth the time, and so he was doing both of them a favour playing up this persona and leaving it at that.

John would have a pleasant experience with someone who didn’t really exist, and Sherlock would be free to go on with his life, with no lasting consequences.

Sherlock was in the middle of relating another story when John grimaced and held up a finger to indicate he’d have to pause this. He dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out a vibrating phone.

Taking the call, he almost hissed into the phone, “What is so damn important at this time? I’m busy.”

Whatever was deemed important enough to disturb him was apparently worth his anger, too, because the call continued after that and he listened attentively, a frown appearing and deepening as it went on. In addition, his lips became a thinner and thinner line while he never said a word, just listened.

By the time the call wrapped up, his face was close to something thunderous. He’d turned his face away, not just from the general company but Sherlock as well but even so, it was not hard to see the expression.

An inhalation through the nose and the jaw working for a moment, and he turned back around.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” he said, sounding sincere in his apology as he stood up. “I’m afraid I have got to leave you. Business and all that utter shite.”

Sherlock stood up, too.

“But you’re at a work function.” That wasn’t how it worked but it was the sort of meek protest that Sam would come up with.

In any case, he wasn’t going to complain when it earned him another smile, one that broke through the frown.

“I know, and it’s Christmas, too.” He huffed an unamused laugh. “Let’s pile on all the clichés, eh?”

“Not all of them.”

John frowned again, that special sort of frown that asked the other person to ever so kindly explain.

“There’s no mistletoe, no drunken misadventures, as you haven’t touched a drop, and you don’t have a fiancé at home threatening to leave you if you’re not home to celebrate Christmas with your completely intolerable soon-to-be in-laws.”

Where on earth had that come from?

The other man stared at him, blinked a few times in rapid succession. Then he barked a laugh.

“Thank you for that,” he said, a wry half-smile on his lips. “Suppose it’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?”

He held out a hand again and Sherlock took it, shaking it firmly but warmly, as the camaraderie of an evening, a sober one for them both, would dictate. He certainly didn’t linger or try to memorise the feel of it. Most definitely not.

“Goodbye, Sam. Thank you for making this evening not just tolerable but enjoyable.”

“Goodbye, John. Thank you for not minding, well, me.”

“Hey, now, none of that. I. Enjoyed. Myself. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The swallow at that wasn’t all that acted. Mostly not acted. Not acted at all. The trace of steel in that otherwise pleasant and calm voice was unexpected but not unappreciated.

“Good.”

With that, John let go and walked away, soon disappearing into the crowd of people who’d decided to stretch their legs and mill about a little immediately after dessert.

Sherlock didn’t follow him all the way until he disappeared from view among the milling guests. Most definitely not.

And he certainly didn’t feel another pang in his chest once he could no longer see him. Not at all.

 

* * *

 

It was quiet, this far from the party and the throng of annoying people. Quiet enough that any noise made would be clearly audible, but it was also far enough away that there would be nobody whose attention the noise would attract.

Getting into the room had been relatively easy, even when dodging the security cameras that dotted the inside of the building, too. There was none in the room itself, though, which he supposed wasn’t that surprising. The documents in here wasn’t any that a security guard should inadvertently have a look at while looking through the camera feeds.

Evading detection by the guests hadn’t proven that difficult, either; tall though he may be, with a bit of posture correction and complimenting demeanour, nobody had taken much notice, not even when he’d pushed past them.

Ah. Here they were. The records he’d been after, incongruously but understandably analogue given their age, and the corresponding item, too. He pocketed the item, such an innocuous little thing on its own, and pulled out his phone to take photos of the records, not for his own sake but for that of his client.

Once that was done, he snuck his way back through the crowd. He could’ve found another way that would allow him to avoid them but on the off chance that someone had seen him leave, it wouldn’t be a bad move to see him return. In any case, he didn’t feel much like climbing over buildings today. Not when so many places were lit up as though there was a competition on to make the city one huge and tacky Christmas tree.

So, back through the crowd he wove, offering apologies and occasionally stopping when something caught his attention. It wasn’t that he thought he spotted a grey-blue suit or silver-grey hair. Of course not.

He was almost at the end when he thought he heard…well, his assumed name being called. Of course, it wasn’t exactly the most uncommon of names, and it was far more likely that it was somebody else being called. That said, he thought he recognised the voice.

“Sam!” This time, he most definitely heard it. “Bloody hell, would you wait up a minute? Of course you bleeding well had to own giraffe legs.”

He turned around to see John glaring at him as he closed the remaining distance between them. There were very few other people this close to the entrance.

“Well, we can’t all be hedgehogs, can we?” The words were out before he remembered that that wasn’t very…Sam-like, as it were.

Coming to a halt, John tilted his head at that but otherwise didn’t comment. He instead looked between Sherlock and outer door, which wasn’t far away.

“You weren’t leaving, were you?” he asked, and there was something odd in his voice at that.

“Not were. Are. Present tense. I…I’m sorry, but I…” he faltered and stopped speaking.

Why wasn’t he coming up with an excuse? Anything would do. It didn’t matter whether it was plausible or not, so long as it was enough to get John to buy it and let him go.

“That keen to get away, eh?” The odd note got stronger. Why couldn’t he identify it?

“What? No! No, it’s not that. I just…I’m not that good with…with a lot of people. It…”

He stopped at that, not because he had any difficulties speaking but because the other’s face softened in what seemed to be understanding. There was something else, there, too, something…wistful?

“Of course. Should’ve spotted that. Sorry.” He paused, briefly. “Did I…I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Oh. Oh, no. Not at all. No, it’s just…after a while, I…it gets a bit too much.”

He smiled again, the wobbliness and uncertainty feigned and the apology sincere. He really would like to stay, he could admit to that in his head, even if reluctantly. Or at least, he’d like to stay with John, and preferably not here. But since that wouldn’t be an option, and he ought to realise that and move on.

“I enjoyed talking to you, John. Really. Very much so.” No harm in admitting that, surely? Not when it was true, and they were parting ways, in any case.

Especially not when it made John grin again, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He seemed to be weighing up something in his mind, too, though.

Sherlock didn’t expect what happened next. At all.

John moved closer. In fact, he moved right up in front of the taller man, still smiling. Then, pausing for a moment while keeping eye contact, he leaned forward and up, and pressed a kiss, not to a bony cheek but to cupid bow lips. It was soft, and it was brief, more of a peck than anything, really, but for all that, it stunned the brunet completely.

That wasn’t to say he disliked it. Quite the reverse.

When the other man pulled away, taking a step backwards, he took in the stunned but in no way revolted expression on Sherlock’s face and frowned a little. His eyes and mouth were both still smiling, however.

He pointed up towards the ceiling.  “Mistletoe. You’re allowed when under the mistletoe, right? Don’t worry.”

It felt as though he’d meant to say something else but stopped before it could pass his lips. He smiled again but didn’t attempt to touch Sherlock at all.

“Merry Christmas, Sam.” There was that odd tone again.

He turned and walked away, not looking back once.

Sherlock stared after him.

“Merry Christmas, John.” It came out in a whisper.

He almost ran home.

There’d been no mistletoe above them.

 

* * *

 

He wouldn’t look him up. There was no reason to and he wasn’t going to. Ever.

The case had been slightly postponed, mostly because he’d ended up being dragged to Christmas Day lunch with his family despite all his best efforts, protests and jabs at Mycroft. It had only been a little improved by his brother finding the pound coin by almost choking on it, and the promise that he’d stay out of Sherlock’s hair for at least three months.

The fact that there’d been a snide comment from Mycroft about the exact _colour_ of said hair – the temporary dye hadn’t been all that temporary, as it’d turned out – at present had not helped.

Back in his flat, the first order of business was to get the case over with; do the experiment he needed to, link that to the previous point and then dazzle the client with the explanation. Then he would soak in the bath long enough for the damn dye to wash out completely.

He staunchly, adamantly refused to examine why he was so keen to get both of those things over and done with as soon as possible.

The case wrap-up on Boxing Day went smoothly, dully so, but he didn’t much notice. Nor did he take note of the awed and the dismayed expressions on the face of the client and the accused, respectively. As soon as he was done, he did the stylish version of storming out of there.

Once back at the flat that evening, he got in the bath immediately, submerging his head up to his ears. Even if he had to stay in until the water was stone cold and then draw a new bath to repeat, he would get the ruddy colour out.

His hands came up to steeple under his chin. After this, though…what, then? He could call Lestrade, see if there were any cases that were remotely interesting. He’d do anything for a good one, maybe go as low as a seven.

_But you’ve just solved one!_

Hardly a challenge, that. Something to do to keep his mind from turning to mush and stave off the boredom…and Mycroft. The latter had failed, so it had proven even more of a dud.

Not entirely, though, was it?

He only realised he’d moved one of his hands when his fingers traced over his lips, softly, mimicking the touch of –

No!

He sat up abruptly, the water consequently sloshing about him and out of the tub, splashing onto the tiles, though he didn’t notice.

No. This had to _stop._ It had been bad enough that separate images had kept bumping about in his brain during the entirety of Christmas lunch, despite all his best efforts to ignore it, snippets of their conversations and John’s laugh had replayed themselves in his mind at random and inopportune moments while finishing up the case and delivering the denouement. Now this!

Why did it keep coming up? He was just a man, a normal, boring, predictable man who happened to have one or two interesting things about him, like being an army surgeon who missed his war and his ease in his own body and the softness of his lips…bloody buggering fuck, no!

For crying out loud, it wasn’t as if it was even his first kiss – was it? He unquestionably would’ve deleted the incident if he had kissed someone or someone had kissed him, so he couldn’t be completely certain, but honestly, he highly doubted it. It therefore ought to hold no significance, and certainly not because it was given by one specific person.

He should delete it. He would delete it. There was no reason for him to keep it and every reason to delete it. So, the question was, why hadn’t he deleted it immediately afterwards? And if not then, why not in the days in between? It wasn’t as though it’d take very long.

**_Why?_ **

Sinking back into the water, he closed his eyes, his hands demonstratively on his chest. Might as well do it while he was soaking anyway, getting rid of any reminder of that damned evening, for good.

_Goodbye, John Watson._

* * *

 

 

He thought he’d done an excellent job. Or rather, if he remembered what he’d deleted, which of course he didn’t, as that was rather the point, he’d think he’d done an excellent, thorough job of it.

There was no trace in his mind of the dinner or the kiss, and all that remained was the knowledge that he’d successfully snuck into the building and retrieved the necessary things for the case.

He did have to wonder why his attention was continuously caught by people who wore anything bluish grey or whose hair was silver, though, and especially why his chest clenched a little each time he did so.

It made no sense but as it was hardly dangerous or detrimental beyond frustration, he ignored it.

Lestrade had no cases for him – “no, seriously, Sherlock, piss _off_ , it’s the holidays, I need some peace and quiet, go bother someone else” – and nobody had written on the website, at least nothing of any interest.

He then turned to his lab equipment. For something truly interesting he would probably have to endear himself to Molly again, so she’d let him have a few choice body parts to experiment on. That seemed unlikely when he’d verbally eviscerated her new boyfriend, who’d been oddly familiar, in front of her. But honestly, she should’ve picked up on the fact that he was philanderer. One would’ve thought that he’d been much proficient and had far more flair about executing it than he had, given the sheer number of times he had obviously managed to pull it off.

Molly had been anything but happy about the revelation and had blamed Sherlock as much as her boyfriend, if not more. She’d ordered him out of her lab and had resolutely kept him out by whatever means she could find. That had been almost three weeks ago and there was little sign that she’d lightened up about it, which was hardly fair. He’d been doing her a favour; she deserved much better.

So, anything from Bart’s was out of the question. Yet, if he was to do any sort of experiment that would occupy his attention fully, it would have to be on something better than what he already had in the flat.

Of course, he could always use some other organs…but there weren’t any proper butchers anywhere in the vicinity. At least, there weren’t any who sold something of good enough quality for what he had in mind. There was one…yes, that one could work. They’d be likely to have pig hearts and other interesting titbits he could use.

He didn’t examine why he was so keen on having something to fully occupy his attention, writing it off as merely a temporary cure for his ever-lurking boredom. Which really would’ve been dealt with well enough by the ones he was already conducting, if he was being honest with himself.

It’d be a good long trip to get there, but it’d be worth it, and he could stop thinking.

He was on his way back home, laden down with several bags full of offal and other assorted things that had caught his attention – he’d managed to sweettalk the girl behind the counter into letting him into letting him behind it and onto where they cut the meat – when he noticed something odd.

It was odd in that way you’re not entirely certain it happened. Just for a moment, he thought he saw someone look at him. At him, not first his bags and then him, disgust on their face, but directly, exclusively at his face. What was more, they had a look of uncertain recognition on their own face, as if they were doubting the evidence their eyes were providing and doubting their memory, too.

The person had silvery grey hair and warm blue eyes.

Their eyes locked for only a short moment before someone came between them, the streets packed with people intent on returning gifts, having some extended holiday cheer or similar. Sherlock shook his head and moved on, telling himself that it had been nothing but a coincidence.

A coincidence of what, though? And why did his chest clench again, so hard this time?

 

* * *

 

It was the afternoon of December 31st and he was lying on the sofa in his dressing gown and pyjamas, ostensibly thinking but in reality, he was sulking.

A few of the experiments he’d started with the hoard from the butcher shop were progressing well but there were also some that had been complete and utter failures, with a single disaster thrown into the mix, and what was more, they had gone wrong because he’d been distracted.

And by what? Flashes of blue eyes and silver-grey hair, flashes that refused to disappear. Flashes that seemed to connect with something in his mind, but only very briefly, as if the connection was to something broken.

Once or twice, he thought he’d almost grasped a name to go along with the flashes, but it vanished before he could get a proper hold of it.

Not that it mattered, not beyond the frustration and irritation it caused, and of course the ruined experiments. It didn’t.

Mrs. Hudson popped in a little later, to say that she was going out for the night, so if he was planning anything that would blow up the building or set her flats ablaze, could he be a dear and preferably not do it, but if nothing else, at least postpone it until the new year? Oh, and she brought him a few things, just, you know, for the evening, things that would be going spare, otherwise, she wasn’t his housekeeper.

He really wasn’t in the mood to interact with her, but she wasn’t put off by his behaviour, it was run-of-the-mill to her by this point, and she even came over to peck his cheek and wish him a happy new year.

She bustled back down the stairs after that, and he was left to himself. _Thankfully._

He didn’t move from his spot on the sofa for some time afterwards, not even to see what she’d brought. Well, perhaps just a little peek.

 

* * *

 

When evening rolled around, he was sitting at his microscope, still dressed in his dressing gown and pyjamas. He’d been hearing fireworks going off and people celebrating for a bit now but had paid it no heed. It was nothing to do with him.

The amount of noise was part of the reason it took him a while to register that there was someone at the front door, ringing the doorbell.

When he did, he frowned. Client? At this time? But it wasn’t Lestrade, or Mycroft, or anyone else who might reasonably come to the door. Mrs. Hudson had her key, and in any case, the length of time the bell was…no, it wasn’t quite right for a client.

His curiosity piqued just a little, he debated whether to quickly change into proper clothes. If he was quick about it, then…

He got properly dressed in record time, doing up his shirt buttons as he descended the stairs, hoping that whoever it was hadn’t gone, as he hadn’t heard the bell again.

When he opened the door, he would have to admit he was surprised. Or at least, nonplussed.

There, in the doorway, holding what was unquestionably a plastic bag full of takeaway in one hand, along with a sprig of some sort of foliage, was the same man with the blue eyes and the silver-grey hair he’d seen on his way back from the butcher. There was no doubt about it.

This time, the name came easily.

John. John Watson.

But…he’d deleted him. Removed him from his hard drive. He shouldn’t have flashes of him, much less actually _remember_ who he was.

What was more, all the associated memories came flooding back, too; the dinner, the stories shared, the easy companionship, the laughter. The kiss.

His confusion deepened. Not only because of his mind had seemingly made an unasked for and certainly unprecedented backup of the incident, but because John had shown up here, at his address. The one registered to Sherlock Holmes, which had nothing to do with his assumed name and identity.

To add to that, there was no question this time that John recognised him, which again was puzzling, though perhaps not quite as much. He had relied on people remembering the hair, the glasses and the demeanour rather than anything else. It would hardly be unfeasible that the former soldier would’ve picked up on more.

All of this ran swiftly through his mind, without any betrayal on it on his face. He thought nothing was betrayed on his face, not even recognition, and he answered it calmly. Unaffected.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

His assessment of whether something was betrayed was entirely wrong.

John looked up at him, his face open and calm, but with just the smallest hint of a smirk that said, along with slightly raised eyebrows, ‘I’ll play your game but I’m going to come out the winner’.

“Yes, I believe you can,” he said. “See, I’m looking for someone and I was told you’d be able to help me find them.”

“That would be the police you’re looking for. Easy to miss, I grant you, but if you look for an unusually large cluster of bumbling idiots, you’ll not go far wrong.”

He took a step backwards, intending to let that be that. His chest felt funny and tight at that, but he tried to ignore it. He didn’t like being found out like this, and he had meant what he’d thought on that day; it would be best for both of them if they didn’t see each other again.

_Then why has he spent obvious time and effort on finding you again? It’s been several days since he caught a glimpse of you, quite accidentally and completely out of context in relation to your previous meeting, and the time before that you looked and acted quite different, with no indication that you lived here or were in reality not who you said you were. So, there can be little doubt that to get this far, to actually locate you has taken not only quite a substantial amount of skill, it has taken commitment and perseverance. That does in no way harmonise with someone who thinks it’d be best if you never meet again._

Perhaps, but that was purely because John wasn’t in possession of all the facts. He may think that because he’d met Sam and had gotten along with him, that he knew him or even that he knew Sherlock, but he didn’t. It would be…kinder on him to terminate this thing now.

_And the fact that he’s learned that you were lying to his face about who you were, and he’s **still** made the effort to come all the way here, that counts for naught, does it?_

John followed his step backwards with a forward step of his own, effectively preventing him from closing the door without slamming it right into his face, and he didn’t want to do that.

“Perhaps, and I don’t wish to intrude,” he said, his smirk becoming a smile that was warm but slightly impish. “But see, someone at that station told me you’d be…the best _suited_ to finding this particular person I’m looking for.”

He took another step forward, right up close to the taller man, who refused to step further backwards, which resulted in them being almost chest to chest. Well, as much as their height difference would allow.

“In fact,” he continued, and the impishness grew as did the spark in his eyes, “I think you might have saved me the search altogether. That is, of course, if you’ll allow me inside.”

“And why would I do that?”

John paused and pursed his lips, pretending to consider it. “Well. You took a lot of finding, but I suppose I can’t put that on you since you did do quite a bit of work in order not to be found. Buuut…there is that whole ‘sneaking into a company under an assumed identity to pilfer documentation from said company’, that might be a better bargaining chip.”

Sherlock didn’t outwardly react, though he’d admit to being a little impressed by John actually working out that he’d been telling lies and finding him, but more so that he wasn’t afraid to employ that knowledge as a bargaining chip, on his doorstep. Usually people waited until they were behind closed doors for that kind of behaviour.

At least, he didn’t react negatively. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and gave a small smirk of his own. “An allegation without any sort of evidence to back it up? Surely you can do better than that?”

There, that ought to help convince the man that he wasn’t…well, he knew that Sam was an assumed identity but that wasn’t to say he thought the personality was assumed, as well. That might convince him and leave him be.

But he didn’t want that, did he? His clenching heart said no.

John Watson surprised him. Again.

He smiled. Not a grin, not a smirk, but the warm smile that Sherlock had so liked the evening they’d met.

John took a step back. “I do but I was sort of hoping you might settle for some Chinese takeaway with me instead,” he said, holding up the bags he carried.

“A bribe, John? Really?” When did his tone turn into more of a friendly jab than a dismissive stab?

At that thought, he paused to reassess and took a moment to actually _look_ at John, deduce him like he would anybody else. Strip away what had gone before, how they had started off, look at the _man._

What he saw was what he’d picked up on when they’d met, but more than that. Much more; a man so seemingly simple if not quite ordinary but with the sense that it was a tapestry to unravel.

He saw a man who may have come back from the war more whole than many of his comrades, both physically and mentally, but nowhere near unchanged or intact, who was having difficulties, severe difficulties, adjusting to civilian life. He saw someone who was doing tremendously well in his current job and projected the image of being happy and content, of having his life together. In actual fact, however, beneath the surface, he was itching for something, anything to bring him back to proper life instead of the mere existence he had.

Meeting Sherlock, he realised, had been that something, or at least the potential to be that something, and he was willing to take that chance. Especially, he suspected, when he found out Sam Copper didn’t exist.

But it wasn’t only the challenge he’d been after. He’d had that the moment the door had opened and yet, here he still was, with the intention to come inside. To spend more time with _Sherlock;_ he was still here despite the clear evidence his personality wasn’t anything like Sam’s.

_How much more proof do you need?_

But he didn’t _want_ a relationship. It’d be a hindrance, an albatross around his neck, nothing more.

_Now you’re just taking the piss, aren’t you? You might be ignoring it but your heart warms and clenches when he’s around. If sentiment is a defect, then why do you surround yourself with people you don’t strictly need? He’s proven he’s interesting, on several levels, and he likes you. For crying out loud, you deleted him and yet, you remember him. If you need more proof than that, Mycroft really is the smarter brother._

_Shut up!_

But he couldn’t deny, it was a point. A good one.

“Whatever it takes…Sam,” John answered his question as he stepped right up close again, leaning up slightly as he did so. Blue eyes flickered down to Sherlock’s lips and the silver-haired man licked his own.

“Besides, I think I’m owed a kiss, aren’t I?”

Sherlock smiled, a warm, genuine smile and allowed it when his heart sped up. “I do believe you are.”

It was worth a shot.

The kiss was sweet. The next one, inside 221B, was as sweet but not quite as chaste or short.

The new year promised to be interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know entirely why but as I said, I'm nervous about this. Please, in the spirit of Christmas, be kind to me. ;) I hope it worked at least okay, all things considered, and I can say I enjoyed writing it, if nothing else, horrible amounts of clichés (all deliberate) and all. :D
> 
> Feedback is...you know the drill :)
> 
> Thank you for the year and the kindness, everyone! Merry Christmas, happy holidays and take care. ❤❤


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